Wrathless
by crystals-for-food
Summary: Arthur Kirkland runs a tanking business that's only staying afloat through his deal on the side - shipping drugs for a man named Allen Jones whose personality completely contradicts his "job". When Arthur begins to feel awful for supplying cocaine for the whole of England's black market, he asks Al for a way out. And Al gives him one... with a catch, or so Arthur thinks.


The odd mixture of men's cologne and decadently garnished, roasted meats distracted Arthur when he walked in. The cologne was overpowering, but the smell of smoking ham and turkey and choice filet cuts made his stomach rumble. He hadn't eaten anything since this morning, and he was extremely hungry. Though he knew he wasn't here tonight to gorge himself but to bargain like the devil.

He approached the host station and asked the man there if Allen Jones had arrived yet. The man nodded and led him to a brightly lit corner directly in front of a window overlooking the brilliantly crafted stone angel fountain next to the entrance. The angel's elegant, textured wings brimmed with lines showing each feather in its own separate, poised beauty. He knew the eyes lifted up to heaven were supposed to look pure and joyous, but all he could see was a hollow desire in its cold, dead gaze. Thank God it was turned away from him because he couldn't have handled it staring through the back of his neck all evening, watching him for some– _any_ –inkling of sin.

Allen Jones sat with his chin in his palm, staring serenely out the window. The glass reflected his strong jawline, crimson eyes, and long, feminine eyelashes. On him, it should have looked odd, possibly even eerie. But he somehow pulled it off and kept himself smartly masculine. He wore a black velvet jacket, a white dress shirt poking out, its top button undone.

The first time Arthur met him, Al definitely hadn't looked like that. He had looked like a grease monkey, his tank top covered in stains (not all of them identifiable) and his hair a rat's nest. Now, there wasn't a hair out of place. Probably courtesy of the gel threaded through the mahogany strands.

"Good evening," Arthur said. His voice automatically chilled, coming from the deep, dark pit echoing in his intestines. He didn't know why he noticed how carved out he was when he talked to Al, but he did. He did, and it was a bloody mess of longing and loneliness that made his stomach twist. Al seemed to have a soul. Or, at least, some soul _left_. Despite the fact that he shipped drugs in Arthur's product packages. Despite that fact.

"Hey," Al said, smiling at Arthur like he was an old friend and not a partner in crime. "You gonna sit down?"

 _But,_ Arthur mused as he pulled out his chair, _partners in crime are probably closer than friends. After all, we've been through hell together._

The moment his ass touched the seat, a waiter came over and asked what he wanted to drink. He told them Earl Grey tea would be perfect, and they clipped brusquely off. Al grinned at Arthur, reaching over to take his hand and kiss it. A smirk grew on the man's face, his eyes gleaming like an elf's. "Mr. Kirkland," he said, his tone smooth and inviting.

"What?" Arthur snapped, tugging his hand back and wiping it on his napkin. Al's hand wasn't sweaty, his was.

Al grinned, obviously proud of having gotten under Arthur's skin so early in their meeting. "Have you ever been here?" he asked, looking around as if to punctuate his question.

The restaurant had maroon wallpaper decorated with elegant, golden swirls that twined up the paper like sparkling vines. The pattern and color contributed a pretentious, almost seductive ambiance to the room, and the dim overhead lights and setting sun added to the atmosphere as well. An empty wine glass sat next to a basket full of bread, and Arthur noticed Al had a half-eaten roll on his salad plate and was taking a small sip of a sweet-smelling, red wine from his own full glass.

"No, I haven't," Arthur answered crisply.

Al raised an eyebrow at him, the mischievous gleam in his eyes replaced with concern. It always surprised Arthur how easily Al showed his emotions. In spite of being a big part of the cocaine smuggling trade, Allen Jones maintained a big, raw, bleeding heart that he definitely didn't try to hide. He swept a hand through his hair and then tapped out a familiar rhythm on the table, but there wasn't any pitch, so Arthur couldn't tell what song it was. _Probably some stupid American song,_ he mused. The first time Al walked into his office and started talking, Arthur had been taken aback at how he hadn't noticed how _American_ he was. He had dressed in a beautiful suit with a bow tie, and after he had left, Arthur had wondered if Al had tailored the outfit specifically so Arthur would feel more comfortable despite him being from another continent. Sometimes, Arthur wondered about Al's IQ and how high it was. He had never had the courage to ask though, afraid he'd be very disappointed.

"Me either," Al said. "So, you said you wanted to talk about something? It's not ideal for you to want to talk about business on our third date, but that's okay. I'm not picky."

He winked at Arthur, and Arthur rolled his eyes. Still, it made his heart beat faster, and he appreciated the flirting. It was empty, of course, but appreciated. "How many times _must_ I remind you? We are not dating, we have never dated, and we never will," he snarled.

The retort flew over Al's head. He smiled that large, genuine smile that almost looked naïve, but a twinge of sadness befell it, crested beneath his eyes and broke in his gaze. Wisdom beyond his age flashed in his dilated pupils and in his calloused hands. Arthur had felt them before–those hands. Rough-hewn and grainy like tree bark but with soft, rounded corners instead of jagged splinters. In fact, it seemed as if Al's hands told the story of him as a person. Supposedly tough, sharp, and bellicose. However, he leans forward with a softness in his eyes and catches his nearly empty wine glass delicately despite what one would expect from such scarred hands. But Arthur understood that the scars dictated perfection. Al had probably held and shot a gun almost everyday of his life, either in training or real life, and those numb areas showed the amount of experience he had with a weapon. Perhaps it wasn't even a gun he carried. Maybe he sported a knife, a dagger, a piece of lead pipe. Arthur had never seen Al use a weapon, and he really didn't want to.

"You know how to get a guy going," Al purred. His foot brushed against Arthur's under the table, and Arthur pulled his back.

"Al, stop!" he hissed, aggressively placing a napkin in his lap. He picked up his wine glass just as the waiter came back and asked if he wanted some wine. He glanced at Al who raised an eyebrow as if to say, _Now you want my opinion?_

The waiter glanced between them, seemingly almost nervous. His eyes lingered for a second longer on Al than Arthur, and Arthur abruptly realized Al had lied to him. "No wine, please," he murmured gruffly. "We're ready to order. I want your duck and elk pot roast." He glared at his partner, emerald eyes flaming with wrath. "Allen. Order."

Al offered a nonchalant shrug and ordered, leveling his hard gaze at Arthur as he ordered. "Yer Cajun pasta, no chicken, lotsa peppers," he mumbled, his Jersey accent grating from his throat.

Once the waiter left, Arthur snapped, "You lied to me. You have been here before."

Al picked at his bread and flicked the crumbs against the stem of his wine glass. He mumbled something unintelligible before saying a bit louder, "Was a long time ago. Few years."

"It doesn't quite seem so long ago," Arthur growled. "The man was young, probably around twenty-four, still in college. He probably skips from job to job a lot to gain work experience, and he definitely has worked many other places before getting accepted to this prestigious place. And how the hell would he have recognized you from three years ago? You're lying to me again."

"I said a _few_. Goddamn, I meant two, not fucking three," he grumbled, swirling the wine in his glass. The intense way he stared at it caught Arthur's attention, and he wondered if Al had ever drank blood. The wine's color wasn't too far from it. Arthur shivered, a thought occurring to him. Maybe Al was imagining drinking _his_ blood. Why did he have to be so contentious? He was about to ask for something that Al would most likely get all up in arms about, and he spat at himself for baiting an argument. Why did he care if Al had lied to him? It wasn't about anything important.

Arthur took a deep, stabilizing breath, but it only rattled his ribcage. Al could kill him, no doubt. The muscles bulging from the somewhat lax sleeve of his jacket told Arthur all he needed to know about Al's strength, and Al's intelligence combined with that made Arthur want to run. Nothing more frightening than a smart gym whore. "I apologize," he said, dipping his head. "It doesn't matter."

Blinking in surprise, Al tilted his head. "Ah… Thank you," he said. "Sorry, I…"

Why was he apologizing? When you refused to tell someone about your illegal activities, you didn't say _sorry_. Especially if you were someone like Al, laced with tattoos, a harsh American accent, and an I-don't-give-a-fuck attitude. It almost broke Arthur's heart. "No, it's fine," he told Al, taking his hand. "I understand."

Al's crimson eyes lit up, and he knitted his fingers through Arthur's. His lips parted slightly in a way that made his jaw soften and his forehead relax. He looked as if he were peaceful, watching the confusion evident on Arthur's face, and Arthur couldn't figure out what had changed. Usually, people became defensive when one said "fine" or "I understand" because–and Arthur had caught himself doing this several times too–it sounded patronizing. Al… Al just didn't seem to notice. And Arthur's heart tugged again and cracked halfway down the middle. _He's breaking my heart,_ he thought. _And he's not even trying._

"So, you said you had to tell me something, right?" Al said, scooting his chair forward until his abdomen pressed against the edge of the table. He leaned even closer, his grin broadening.

And that brought Arthur back to earth. What had he been doing? Al was a drug dealer. A cold-blooded drug dealer who had taken advantage of Arthur's plummeting profit margins to coerce him into packing cocaine into his shipping crates. The whole deal made him feel lousy–worse than lousy. A fucking criminal, for God's sake. Arthur was a _criminal_. He could get caught, go to jail, and have his asshole torn up, down, and sideways. He had to extricate himself from Al and push him far, far away. But first, he had to cut off the deal, and that would be harder than closing down his factory and finding a new job. Much harder.

The sensation of his head being smashed against some cold, dark sidestreet, splitting open and splashing blood onto the pavement, roared through his head and shattered his nerves. His flesh would stain the wall, a splatter that would be sectioned off and inspected fifty times. His body would cool in a morgue until they ruled the case inconclusive. He knew Al would get away with the murder. The American had probably killed scores of other spineless rats like him. Arthur gulped at the thought, his hands shaking as he imagined them twitching lifelessly on a rain-slick street in the dead of night.

"Yes," Arthur said. The ivory tablecloth pooled against his knees, itching his skin through his silk pants. He gulped, the knot in his throat nearly choking him. He felt it push against his vocal cords and cut off the words trying to form on his tongue.

Al smiled encouragingly, squeezing Arthur's hand again. "You can tell me anything," he said gently, lightly.

Arthur highly doubted that.

Finally, he managed to push past the block in his throat and the quiver in his chest and said, "I want out."

To his surprise, Al laughed. He threw his head back and laughed heartily, drawing the attention of a few guests who blinked blearily at them. "Um…" Arthur muttered as Al settled down. He glanced at Arthur with shining eyes and a small smirk.

"Out? Like out of the closet?" Al chuckled, pressing Arthur's palm to his cheek and kissing the inside of the gentleman's wrist. "I can definitely help with that. Just go ahead and whip your dick out and take me right now. On the table."

Arthur's horror-stricken face must have been hilarious because Al guffawed again. His laugh was almost a roar, and a lot of guests were now glaring at him. He didn't bother with them. Instead, he cupped Arthur's chin and moved closer until his warm, wine-brushed breath puffed over Arthur's lips. "What's wrong? Gettin' blue balls?" he murmured sensually.

"Allen, really! Manners!" Arthur hissed, batting Al's hand away.

Al sat back in his chair but kept the smug smile stamped on his face. "Fine, fine, you didn't mean that, did you? What do you want out of?" he conceded, running his finger over the leaf designs printed on the tablecloth. They seemed to glimmer gold against his finger, and the late setting sun brought out flecks of glitter under Al's fingernails. His jawline was silhouetted in the glow, giving him the appearance of some ethereal Hellenistic god.

The deep breath he took in rattled down to his lungs, slamming to the bottom and ringing in his ears. Or maybe that was his blood. Was his blood pressure rising? "I want out–out of this… this deal," he said with an accidental edge to his voice. He bit the inside of his cheek and waited for quiet, bargaining rage.

"Huh? You mean… _Oh_. Well… that's gonna be kinda hard…" Al said. With a suspiciously gentle touch, he stroked Arthur's bushy eyebrows. A lump formed in Arthur's throat, and he suddenly saw two, bloody bunches of hair on the floor, flecks of ivory skin clinging to the red and coarse dark brown.

"Why?" Arthur asked through gritted teeth.

Al withdrew his hand, his fine eyebrows knitting together. He rubbed the back of his neck and ran his fingers through his hair, destroying the slicked-back, gelled look. Arthur was struck by how emo Al looked now–like one of those American punk-pop musicians trying too hard to mix Queen with KISS and The Beatles. "Well, kid… I mean, you _can_ get out, but… It's gonna take some convincing…" Al told him, shrugging almost as if he wanted to hide behind his shoulders.

Convincing? What did he mean? Oh God, he was going to have to bargain with Al's _boss_. Some guy who had five wives, tattoos on every inch of his body (including his penis), and the vocabulary of a slug with the manners of a shark. "Um…" Arthur murmured. "Convince who?"

"Huh? Who? I thought you had looked into that by now," Al said, a dry smirk on his face.

Looked into? How was Arthur have supposed to have done that? Arthur had no access to the dark web–he didn't even know how to _find_ it–and he definitely didn't regularly associate with Al's acquaintances. Unless… Al meant himself. Was _Al_ the mastermind behind the entire operation? Then what the hell was he doing field work for?

"Do you mean… you want a trade?" Arthur asked cautiously. Where did he get his supply from? Was he a one-man show? And why had he gone into the drug trade in the first place? He had a knack for arguing and endless charisma, he could have easily been a politician or a lawyer.

Al glanced at Arthur and tilted his head. "A trade? You gonna trade me cocaine for meth?" he said, smiling. "Never figured you for the meth type, Artie. You seemed more along the lines of opium."

 _Cheeky bastard,_ Arthur thought, grinding his teeth and trying to keep his cool. _He knows he could probably sell me on the black market, and here he is, making light-hearted jokes about the Opium Wars._ Fiddling with the end of the tablecloth, Arthur looked down at his empty, shiny dinner plate. "What do you want?" he mumbled. "Money, sex, what?"

An electrifying current suddenly split through the air. Arthur could feel it through the abrupt intensity of Al's crimson gaze. "Are you offering?" Al asked, his voice dropping an octave. It was at the same time comforting and arousing, and Arthur wasn't sure if he completely liked the combination.

"I… suppose," he said. "As long as you promise I won't have to keep shipping out your… your _packages_."

"Done." Al gave him a timeless, American smirk. It could have been villainous or venomous, but it seemed… seductive. As if Arthur was not on thin ice but a date. A real date. God, how long had it been since he'd actually gone on one? Three years ago, he decided. Yes–with a really stuck-up, vain Frenchman. He noticed he had a certain affinity for foreign men, and he didn't spend enough time reflecting on it to know why.

The waiter came back and served them their food, the steam rising from both their dishes and making Arthur's mouth water. He picked up his fork and stopped when Al said, "I'll pay, by the way. For dinner."

Arthur took a bite of roast beef and almost let the words _You better_ slip through his mouth. But he held his tongue. "Okay," he replied briskly after swallowing. "Thanks."

The word tasted almost sour, but at least through this experience he would know that his body was a valued commodity. Well, when he put it like that, it didn't seem valuable. But Al seemed to want it, for some reason.

Quickly, Arthur glanced up at Al. He was shoveling food in his mouth, not caring that the atmosphere called for small nibbles and elegant flourishes as one lifted their wine glass. With a wry smile, Arthur continued eating, and he watched Al finish the plate in five minutes. "You ate too fast," he commented.

Al winked at him and purred, "That's how fast I'll finish you. Don't expect anything less of me–I certainly don't."


End file.
